


How to Lose Everything

by SoraMJigen



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Haunted Mansion (Ride)
Genre: Break Up, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Dead People, Death, Death-T, Depression, Everyone is Dead, Ghosts, Kindred Spirits, Loneliness, Loss, Loss of Faith, Lost Love, Memory Loss, Murder, Murder-Suicide, Spirits, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Talking To Dead People
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5164790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoraMJigen/pseuds/SoraMJigen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshot. It's the last straw for George Gracey, the master of Gracey Mansion. With his final chance at happiness gone and no one else to love him, what more does he have to live for?</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Lose Everything

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: SUICIDE AND HANGING.
> 
> I initially worked on this as my Halloween special fic, but life has other plans. You know like Halloween parties, working on a costume, and work in general. It would be a shame to let this fic go to waste - especially since it's a fandom I love dearly. Enjoy and thank you for reading :D

“Where is George?!” A fierce outburst tore through a pair of blue lips belonging to a rather blue shaded woman asghostly passerbys stared at her. 

She couldn’t recall much other than her fall from the mansion’s window, its cracked glass now reflecting eerily in the lightening that flashed over the stately residence. Its walls loomed over her and looked down upon her, like a parent quietly reprimanding their child with a loathsome glare. She shrunk back against the wet grass beneath her ivory dress. Her fingers fumbled to feel the earth beneath her in an attempt to obtain a grasp on reality as she stared past the beings before her and into the broken window of the mansion’s attic. They didn’t matter now as her brain reeled in an attempt to piece everything together.

In her one hand was a bouquet – ah yes, she was about to wed the master of the house, George Gracey. They had been together for a few months or so now. She came from the wealthy side of town, much like George, and immediately clicked with him. Their tastes were refined and simple – they enjoyed the finest of art (as evident by the multiple portraits in his mansion (though she swore sometimes they changed into darker visions) and the simplicity of sitting the library with a good cup of tea and some excellent piano music. Even piano music by itself was enough to make her and George smile as well as carriage rides through fields in the warm summer time. He was kind hearted, much like her. They were the perfect pair and so when he had proposed to her she automatically said yes, promising her heart to him. Yet she found it rather odd that he had asked for her hand only a few months after they were bound to the ties of courtship. It was suspicious at first, but her love for the man dominated any doubt in her mind. The man had nothing to hide – no child, no secret wife, no affair, no mistress. Clearly, he was in no sort of debt and he got along rather well with her family, the Cavanaughs. Yes, her name was Emily Cavanaugh, soon to be Emily Cavanaugh Gracey. 

Emily was cold already, but she swore the rain made her feel colder as though she were alive and caught in an unexpected downpour. She wrapped her arms around her torso only to find they went through her and she recoiled in horror, having never felt herself in this way before. The bouquet fell from her frame and she jumped slightly as the flowers fell through her body. Her brain attempted to digest everything as though she were a starved convict who had eaten too fast and was trying to savor every food that they had ingested. 

“There now, miss, it’s not easy once you realize you’re deceased.” A spirit dressed as a king floated towards her, leaving his seat from a crudely constructed seesaw. 

Drawing her legs up to her torso she unleashed a terrified gasp to find that her legs and feet were gone. In their place was a dissipating vapor that trailed into ghostly white streams of smoke. Her gasp caused her jaw to drop rather slowly, but only now did it fall faster with a scream of anguish and horror that merged with a roar of thunder overhead.  
Emily dared not speak, not sure how long her jaw was slacked open with a seemingly endless scream emerging. She couldn’t feel her throat run dry or her lungs shrivel in her nonexistent chest. In her ears she heard the ringing of her heart, beating as loud and as fast as it could. Through the rain, her heart glowed a brilliant red beneath her wedding gown; the sign of heartache and heartbreak from a bride too young to be widowed and dead and whose love for her darling still carried beyond the pearly gates. The cacophony of lightning and thunder, Emily’s shriek, and a fast paced heart seemed to stretch throughout the graveyard so that every soul heard it and bowed their head in mourning. They had seen this situation unravel before with a few other brides whose hearts were so set on marrying George, but were torn from by unforeseen circumstances. 

“Oh look another one!” An opera singer’s spirit declared and her partner looked over, waving to Emily as a small way of welcoming her to their humble abode. Emily didn’t take notice, her shriek turning to silence with her jaw still agape in terror.

“Come my dear, shall we greet them with song?” The husband retorted and the singer flashed a grin, causing nearby ghosts to groan in protest. The opera singer was definitely a prima donna in which her voice could be heard well over the singing busts and instruments that played at the beginning of the cemetery. Her voice, while rather good, could be irritating at times to the point where other ghosts wished they were as lucky as others who had lost their hearing by means of age or the transition from mortal to spirit.

Emily’s eyes shot upward from examining her beating heart and glared at the ghostly king with enough intensity to make him shiver in fright. He swore her eyes were like fire – yellow and bright, brighter than another peal of lightening that tore through the sky and just as fierce as her voice. They seemed to outshine her very pulsating heart and the ivory roses gathered around her forehead. The other spirits fell away from the deceased bride as the opera singer and her husband began to croon a song of welcoming, a simple tune that seemed to be called ‘Grim Grinning Ghosts’. Instruments joined in, a cat yowled in protest at the loud sound and curled up inside a mausoleum. The bride dared not move, her eyes still glaring, still staring at those who slowly backed away from her, murmuring the lyrics to the song in an attempt to ease her spirit. 

Their words fell upon her silent ears, even as the singing busts led the merry tune. Emily’s fingers trembled angrily, wondering how these spirits could be so happy that someone new had just joined their ethereal family and how they could not be worried about the man inside the mansion. They couldn’t be this daft to even question why she was in a bride’s gown and what had happened. Were they so blissfully ignorant? She sneered and leered now, her eyes darting between the spirits and the mansion. The broken window glared at Emily, reminding her of her fall and she swore she felt tears bubbling in the back of her eyes. There was no time for tears now as she fully focused on the spirits. 

“Where. Is. George?!” Emily barked loudly and the graveyard grew still with a crackle of lightning. The opera singer ‘hmphed’ in irritation at the new soul not wanting to hear her lovely singing voice. Her husband attempted to coax her with gentle murmurs to which she smirked softly, easily forgiving him. The instruments were shushed and the cat purred in content, happy to have that racket be ceased in a mere moment.

“The master, miss,” spoke the royal spirit, his voice now fast, wanting her out of his sight in fear she should strike with her lethal tones. 

“Still resides within the manor. Your search for him would be quickened if you phased-“

“How do I phase?” Emily hastily asked.

“Well miss, you simply concentrate all your energy on your being and focus on the wall before you. But I must warn you, it tires you out rather easily if you are not experienced with it.”

“I’ll use it to the best of my ability then.” Emily rose and started towards the mansion. Had she waited another moment she would have seen George Gracey standing at the window where she had fallen. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He supposed he deserved this for what he had done and frankly, he couldn’t blame fate for bestowing him with yet another tragic loss. Somewhere in the mansion, George swore he heard Madam Leota cackle in recognition of what had happened. It would be pointless to ask her of where his ravishing bride had vanished to and what realms she walked in misery and suffering because he would never see her again. Leota could show visions of what spirit trudged through realms beyond, but it wasn’t the same as holding his dear Emily or telling her how much he adored her.

The old hatchet by his side was rusted through, but amazingly did the damage that George had hastily intended. It cut the air as though it were new and brought about the end of two lives. While one was unintentional, the other, he now realized should not have been taken. He allowed logic to abandon him in that moment when those two stood before him in a way he had mistaken. Rationale had left his mind and a drive of something dark and mad had taken over him and urged him to grip that ancient wooden handle. He amazingly pulled it from the loose floor boards in one swift movement and gave it a good swing. Its strike was true and now, where once the scent of perfume and flowers should have lingered now was overpowered by the stench of fresh blood and decay. The first victim fell to the floor as though he were made of dead weight, minus his head that rolled about and landed before his bride who tumbled backward into the rainy night.

Rain on a wedding day. Some had said that rain on an important event was often a sign of good fortune and it was a phrase that Madam Leota had beguiled the master with. She had given him some shred of false hope in that his wedding day would not take a wrong turn and that he would finally obtain his wish of ultimate happiness. To be a married man, to be fully embraced in the sacred act of love and bonding, to no longer walk with loneliness at his shoulders whispering doubts of how he would never find a blushing bride, and to finally, be free of any depression and misfortune that had followed him like a plague. Curse that Leota, curse her family lineage, curse every single chant that uttered from her lips, curse every lie she had disguised as truth, curse everything!

George hastily grabbed a chair and threw it; it clashed with a mirror and made a wondrous shattering sound, much like the roar of thunder in his ears. Perhaps this would quell his anger, if not all of it then some. His heart pumped wildly like an uncaged animal as his fingers wrapped around a glass vase and smashed it to the floor. Another crash, another spike in his blood, he threw papers and scrapbooks onto the floor, stomping on some to forget his woeful past of brides who would love him prior to their wedding day only to be eternally fallen by some tragedy. He kicked down a table and it hit the floor in defeat, he tore down tapestries and hurled them across the attic as they landed somewhere in the dark with a lifeless thud, he threw candelabras and porcelain, each deafening sound eliminating the hurt in his heart. With every action he swore his beating heart would not cease and the anger began to strain his head, plunging it into a terrible migraine filled with seemingly endless pain. Gritting his teeth, George found the hatboxes left behind by the victim and threw them against the walls as they rattled loudly and clamored as he kicked them to the ground. He kicked down the mannequin that once supported his bride’s wedding dress and as he lifted his foot to ruin its face, he stopped.

The attic pushed him to the ground as his knees hit the old dusty floorboards like the objects he had thrown. George’s fingers trembled from his outburst, but also at the mannequin before him and how it once held happiness on its frame. That wedding dress he had playfully snuck a peek of while Emily was out in the gardens, he remembered how beautiful she was and how beautiful she looked in it when this nightmare began. Even in the peals of lightening she looked as wonderful as their wedding cake and now, like the cake, she would rot. Her cadaver was probably lost on the mansion grounds, much like her spirit and in knowing this, his heart ached with grief. His hands reached out, grasping the mannequin with such gentleness like a mother to their infant and slowly pulled it close; fearful it would run from him or break in his hands. 

George swore he could smell Emily’s perfume, causing tears to draw from his eyes as he wept for his bride. With every sob his shoulders shuddered and he could feel his heart crack and crumble as it had done many times before. George was surprised to have anything left of a heart after all the tragedy he had endured from familial deaths to the demises of those who so happened to be on the mansion’s grounds. Come to think of it, he was surprised he wasn’t deceased yet with all the unfortunate yet fatal accidents that occurred within the Gracey Mansion. Perhaps someone was watching after him and while this notion would bring solace to any other day, today there was none. His heart was marred by what the mansion had housed – the empty afterlives of spirits who could find no peace in Heaven or Hell. Most of those departures were not deserved; the graveyard for example, none of them deserved dying by some mysterious stranger (who to this day George could not discern) slipping poison in their tea so that they died upon ingestion. Another example of one who did not deserve it, Madam Leota, merely tripping in front of an old suit of armor caused enough vibrations to be sent up the chainmail man’s spine and cause axe to fall. It was a miracle she had been rescued in time by preserving her head in a crystal ball.

Eyes widening, George knew that the victim in the attic had shared the same fate and whipping his head around he searched for the man’s cadaver and head. Maybe there was enough time to preserve the man’s noggin in something, anything, even a hatbox. Abandoning the mannequin, George believed that in this one moment there could be some redemption. Some form of atonement to make up for killing the man in the first place. Surely he didn’t mean it, after all logic was overridden by anger that after all this time his bride would leave him for someone like this man. His mind was warped in that moment and he should have known to follow the rational route of asking about this man’s identity, how he had known Emily, and why did he have his arms around Emily’s hips. His heart ached terribly at that as he gripped his chest, his eyes searching for the head of the man he had brought an end to in hopes there could be time to save him.

A peal of lightening exposed a lengthy ruler just before where the cadaver had fallen. That was strange, George hadn’t noticed that before. Blood splatters covered the ruler, changing its shade of tawny brown to garnet. Arching an eyebrow, George slowly roamed over to the kicked hatboxes only to find that they spilled threads and bobbins and needles from their dented bodies. His spine shivered much like his hands and eyes as they widened at the notion of the dead man’s identity. 

“My God.” George spoke softly, his voice flickering with fright and the realization that the murdered man was not who he seemed. Though, it could happen to anyone, right? A simple case of mistaken identity, a simple trick of eyes fooling their owner, a simple thought gone awry by madness and possible lunacy. He recoiled from the tools in the hatboxes, shock paralyzing him so that only his feet moved, needing to escape the crime he had created. Tripping over a stray hatbox, the attic pulled him to the floor once more as thunder tore through the house.

George’s body fell with a rather loud thud, striking the floorboards with his spine and skull. Incredibly the impact hadn’t rendered him unconscious nor caused any severe damage. Squinting his eyes from the sudden onslaught of pain, he allowed his body to rest on the floor. Perhaps, he could die here and no one would notice. No one came by the mansion anyway. The maids and butlers were deceased, his friends were departed or living betters lives, even his family was buried beneath the ground. There were days when he would attempt to communicate with the spirits, but they were captured in a blissful revelry of the afterlife and could not be bothered by the man who had indirectly cast their fate upon them. While some expressed anger towards George, others expressed sorrow and pity for him for not knowing what would occur and how it would affect them. Those kindred spirits he swore made his life easier by just a fragment, but none could replace the loneliness in his fractured heart. It was a loneliness only a mortal could offer; only Lily and Emily and the other brides could provide when they were alive and well, but now he had no one. Once more he was left to the company of the mansion which he did not want. After all these years, he wanted no solace or comfort from this ghastly home. Rather, he wanted a bride to marry so that they could sell the house and move far, far away, perhaps to some countryside near their town. By no means would they ever leave this town, having gained the popularity and wealthy status of every single class. While it did not matter much to his mentality, he knew that if he left it would possibly be difficult to start business again for either him or Emily. It was a financial risk that could not be run, even though the mansion’s price would give them more than enough to live on for many years to come. Wall to wall furnishings, hot and cold running water, a ballroom, a study, an expansive backyard, it would fetch a wonderful price. But George knew that the idea of living in a haunted mansion complete with spirits, a graveyard, and a woman’s head in a ball would stray many buyers away from purchasing it. He would be doomed to have this place forever in his name and by now he had no heirs that he could pass anything onto other than Little Leota, but she too was dead, just like everyone else in this godforsaken place.

“What have I done?” George asked himself, his eyes diverting to the mass amount of spider webs that had taken up residence in the attic’s ceiling. He swore he felt a spider crawl along his fingers, but he didn’t care.

“There is no simple way of atonement. No redemption to be found, no haven that bears any form of solace.” In those spider webs he watched spiders weave their home and he felt his heart pitter patter softly, as though trying to reincarnate itself from every single thing it had endured in its life so far.

How simple would it be to be a spider, he quietly mused. To weave a web that when was destroyed could easily be replaced and bear no mourning or remorse for what was lost. To house those with security until it was time for them to take their leave by natural devices, nothing forced like fatal accidents. To hide away from the world in a world of one’s own with all the comfort that could be found and created. To have an immense family that while may travel far, would always find their way to their mother and father. Oh low lucky those little arachnids were as they scuttled about their webs without a care in the world.

Perhaps, George mused once more, it was time to be a spider and dangle from his own thread.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“George?!” 

Through the hallways, Emily phased in and out of rooms as she felt her body grow weary with weakness. Each room was almost like the last, filled with some unhappy haunt who threw themselves at the doors or at Emily when she appeared. 

The ballroom dancers wouldn’t stop spinning to answer Emily’s question, not even when she roared. When she did the organ grew louder and she growled angrily. Asking the organist was no good and the people at the table were either indisposed or did not know of George’s whereabouts, too focused on the good time they were having. The gunmen shot each other as opposed to answering and the grandmother by the fireplace started speaking of her life, not at once highlighting any significance to George.

She dared not return to the attic, too traumatized and terrified by everything that had occurred in that room only moments ago. Even looking at it from the graveyard where she had fallen, had made her feel insignificant and mortified, having never felt that way before towards the attic. Emily could hear her heart pounding louder and louder with every space she floated through and every wall she phased through. The costumed king had said to beware of phasing in that it could drain her energy significantly, causing her to hopefully rest in peace. When she would awaken, she would not know, but she did know that resting would have to wait. Emily needed to see George, to show him that she was all right, that she could still be there for him, and that while they could not wed, she could still offer him the love she still had.

But then, Emily wondered, would she even want to?

The man had committed some atrocity before her death that for the afterlife of her she could not recall. Perhaps it was the shock settling in, fuzzing her mind, but whatever it was, she knew she would love George regardless. Nothing terrible could separate her from him or so she believed and whatever it was, they would face it together.

Through another wall and she found herself in the séance room where Madam Leota chanted strange phrases that not even in her living days Emily could understand. Instruments seemingly played themselves and tarot cards dangled like handcrafted snowflakes over the velvet violet curtains of the dimly lit room. Emily never liked this room- it was too eerie for her tastes and yet when she lived, she had passed through it enough times to at least feel safe in this chamber. A raven cawed to alert Madam Leota of the young spirit’s presence and the disembodied figure smirked gently.

“Madam Leota!”

“Ah, my dear you look ravishing! The night is young and the jamboree is inviting!”

“Madam Leota,” Emily disregarded the severed head’s regards, panic filling her voice. “Where is George?”

“George shall be in the Stretching Room. You best hurry my dear or he will meet his doom.”

“His doom?! Leota, what do you mean by-“

“Go! Go to him! Time is short and his future is grim!”

Leota’s voice boomed through the séance room causing trumpets to flare in a violent crescendo and the tambourine to shake like bones. The snare drum beat quickly, in tune with Emily’s heart that echoed throughout the room, her love and concern for George growing like a wave on the sea. She tried to grip her heart in fear, but felt nothing but air. She gritted her teeth, knowing there wasn’t much time. The raven croaked loudly and Emily felt a chill run through her, uncertain of Leota’s misfortune as she took to the wall once more and phased through.

Once she was out of earshot, Leota grinned wickedly knowing what the future told her. It was much more fun this way, to send people on a wild goose chase for a goose that couldn’t be caught. It was her form of entertainment that at least made the afterlife a little interesting. Above her head, the tarot cards gently arranged themselves in accordance to the thoughts in her head and the future to come. With every flip, a small cackle escaped from her lips as the light flickered, much like George’s sanity.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

George’s eyes rolled so that he saw the decapitated head of his victim staring him in the skull. It was an expression that would be frozen in time, of a man begrudgingly glaring at his murderer. Another look of disappointment and absolute seething anger roughly dispersed through the face, the eyes narrow and exposing wrinkles and dark bags with eyebrows pointed downward so that veins appeared on the temples. A scowl exposed gritted teeth that would possibly collapse on themselves and George sighed. He was used to these sorts of expressions now – from the anger filled men of the graveyard the night of the mysterious poisoning to the unfiltered horror that spread across Emily’s face as she fell from the scene before her.

Perhaps, dangling from his web would be good for him in that he may see her again. He may see her and Lily and the others and possibly be happy for once like he was when he was a child. When the world was open and inviting and warm and nothing was wrong. When wealth mattered not as long as a smile was given and received and George had a close circle of friends he would partake on adventures with. He would run through the swamps and lay out in the fields with them and his friends breathlessly laughed like the explorers they were. Day by day, the world slowly began to reveal its true nature – of how a stilted, structured society was run with the wealthy leading the world more than the poor could ever do. George and his friends belonged to those classes and still did to this day, thankfully enough. A few had fallen to death or poverty and George wondered if they could have that childhood happiness in the afterlife, knowing that everything was simpler and less painful?

Any happiness would be better than the gloom that rained down from the sky in torrents of water and caused George to terribly shiver at the dreadful murders that had just occurred and the sadness beating softly in his heart. Rising from the floor, his eyes scanned the darkness for any sort of tool he could use. The axe would be too tedious and cumbersome to use single handedly; the same applied to the swords decorated throughout the attic. As he walked about the attic, thunder roared and gave way to various items that could be used for George’s new found notion. Daggers, broken glass, and while George was not desperate (he still contemplated his idea), he was soon reassured by the shifting of the floorboards beneath his feet, which when parted, gave way to the Stretching Room below.

George and his father had filled the Stretching Room with portraits of significant people in their lifetime. The ambassador was a good friend to George’s father, but had run into trouble with some terrorists who either offered the option to join them on their “righteous” conquest of manslaughter and genocide or to go out with a bang. The ambassador stood atop the barrel and waited for the dynamite to take blow, refusing to join any sort of dark group in an even darker conquest. The elderly woman was an aunt of George’s whose daughter (George’s cousin), Constance Hatchaway, would inherit the mansion once George died. It had been written in the will as such because George’s father grew so negative of his son in regard to him not bearing an heir to pass the mansion (and Gracey name) down to. George wanted children, but marriage evaded him like the plague. By no means was George the type to have intercourse with a woman and leave her carrying a child who his seed bore – he was much more of a gentleman than that. Constance, the only child left of any Gracey family lineage, would inherit the mansion should George fail to produce an heir. Where Constance was, George had no idea – the last he had seen of her was at the funeral of his beloved Lily O’Malley. Constance had a rather fine and older gentleman on her arm and somber eyes.

Then there was Lily and with every glance of her portrait, George’s heart sunk into a thousand seas of mourning with no hope of surfacing. Her fair skin, her tender smile, her overall daintiness that her small figure beheld – she was a vision of beauty. She was the one and while George had believed that many times before, he knew in his heart of hearts that Lily was indeed, his soulmate. Were he ever given a chance to revive one person from this dreadful mansion it would no doubt be Lily O’Malley and while his father had mixed feelings toward her (she was the daughter of a ringleader’s travelling circus and by no means was wealthy, but she loved George dearly), George didn’t care. She was his little tightrope walker whose fate had come too soon.

Lastly, there were the three men who sank into the quicksand. He couldn’t recall much about them, but George swore that he heard his father tell him that those men were con artists. Each one was determined to steal some form of money or the mansion from George’s father, but when they encountered the quicksand in the nearby swamp, their fate was sealed. What stung though was the fact that they were good friends with George’s father and at times, George questioned just how good of friends they were for them to even consider conning his father. They were horrible men who deserved their demises – to have everything stolen that you had worked so hard on, it was a feeling that George knew all too well and detested.

The gap in the floorboards beneath him was obstructed by a secured rafter that held the attic in place. He wondered how long the floorboards had come undone and while on a normal day he would have fixed them himself, but today was about as normal as this strange mansion. Rather, the rafter made for a perfect place for George to drop and dangle. Now would be the long tedious walk of venturing to the shed and retrieving a – lightening pealed across the sky once more, revealing a convenient length of rope sitting on a table, watching him like a python. Why he had not seen that rope before he deduced it was because of the overbearing darkness of the attic, but now he had found his solution in the light.

George had never considered this avenue before and for good reason. His sanity had incredibly stayed intact after all this, but only now did he begin to feel his soul fray, much like his mind. The endless hallways of pleas for freedom that he could not provide, knowing what rested behind those doors and how they threw themselves at the hinged wood that began to crack on some chambers. The spirits eternally spinning in the ballroom to a distorted tune that haunted George’s very dreams and echoed through the graveyard from deceased voices. The portraits of those lost, those honored, those loved – he could no longer bear to see their painted smiles in knowing what had happened to them. Even he questioned himself of how much more he could bear to exist, not only in this unhappy home, but in life when all was taken from him by death’s unexpected hand. Was it so hard to ask for companionship? Was it so complicated to seek out love and obtain it for a lifetime? Surely other people have accomplished these basic feats before and yet George was beyond baffled and angered as to why he could not.

Reaching for the rope, he smiled crookedly. His father, a ship captain, had taught him the ways of the docks. How to tie knots, how to read lighthouses, how to take up the role of a sailor. The rope fell through his fingers and George hastily reached for it like a life saver. Eyeing the object in his hands, he swallowed hard. He knew this would be better for himself and his fingers trembled along the rope, starting to tie the knots that only his father taught him.

It was the ultimate form of atonement after all and perhaps the only way he could reconcile for all those who had died at his mansion.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With the last ounce of her strength, Emily phased through the wall and found herself in the Stretching Room. Looking around, George was nowhere to be found until she noticed something rather….odd about the ceiling. When did that hole get there and why was George standing above it with what appeared to be a noose in his hands as he secured it to the overhead rafters. The mere thought of what was going to possibly unravel caused Emily to shriek his name in protest. 

“GEORGE WAIT!”

Her eyes widened at the sight overhead. The rafters briefly illuminated by the flashing lightening that made her cringe even in her newly corrupted mortal state. She could feel her hands tremble at the sight as she knew what he was going to do and why. Her heart boomed throughout the room, only to be drowned out by the onslaught of rain. Through the dimly lit room and rafters she saw George’s eyes and her jaw shakily lowered at how different they were only moments ago. Minutes ago they were alive with fire in passion and rage and now they were seemingly soulless, even as he placed the loose noose around his neck.

There was no turning back now and George knew this – even his conscience seemed silent, as though accepting the choice George had made. Taking a deep breath, he tried to ignore a tear leaving his eye as he leaned forward and closed his eyes. His weight didn’t seem to matter to the rope as a peal of thunder struck the darkened rain. Had he listened close enough he would have a long, feminine shriek coming from below. Even if he had heard it, it wouldn’t have mattered to him. The love of his life, his final attempt at marriage, his beloved bride was gone just like the many others prior.

The rope tightened like a boa constrictor strangling him and he welcomed the pain, knowing he deserved it for what he had done. George merely winced at the noose’s suffocation around his neck before a snap was heard. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he swore he felt the world slow around him and give way to his life that danced in his head. In these final seconds he saw his father and mother raising him through a blissfully wealthy childhood. The finest schools in America opened their arms to him at learning his name and status and he welcomed it all as his parents enforced. His education was at the highest of standards even up to his college years at Yale. Glimpses of children alongside him flickered before him, running through the fields and sneaking down to the swamp to hunt any voodoo women, including the legendary Madam Leota. Brides and friends, trips across the country, circuses, late night outings with friends in bars filled his head as they all turned to darkness.

Emily’s pained scream carried out through the silence of the stretching room. 

From the newly hung corpse of her would be groom, came an ivory wisp that fell from the body as though someone had just dropped something fragile. Emily couldn’t move, her ghostly form frozen with fright, her mind spinning like a loosening carriage wheel.

The ethereal wisp silently hit the ground and fell upon itself as though someone threw a blanket. Its wrinkles distorted where legs would have been and folds in the arms hid his head. Emily swore she would have fainted were she alive, but for now she could only gasp in horror. The man she had dearly loved was now deceased before her as thunder illuminated his form which slowly moved, adjusting itself to its new form. 

Slowly rising, George blinked. Looking up, he noted his cadaver and sighed to himself. His eyes fell to his hands, his frame, how translucent it was, and how he could see the crimson carpet of the room beneath him. He felt incredibly light as though he were made of feathers and as though all the weights and burdens he had carried in his corruptible mortal state were gone. He felt as though he was born again, a new slate, a new man, able to do everything – even see the departed spirit of his beloved Emily. He believed his sacrifice to be worth it; after all it was the ultimate atonement for those who died due to his direct or indirect hand and in knowing that he was somewhat absolved, he smiled in what seemed like the longest time.

Sharply looking up, George locked eyes with Emily. Elation rumbled in his piercing baby blues that Emily always loved, but now feared, knowing what she knew, and remembering what she remembered of George Gracey. She floated a few feet away from him. Why she had forgotten she couldn’t understand, but now it all came tumbling forth in her mind. 

It was only moments from her walk down the aisle where George Gracey would meet her with kind eyes and a caring smile. In her final minutes of preparation, the tailor was ensuring that the dress fit her properly. Then George appeared and saw her and the tailor and….the axe..he…he he had murdered the tailor! For no reason that she could discern! His insensible murder indirectly caused her fate, her fall through the glass as though she would never stop, and the ground, the cold, wet ground, how hard it had hit her, how terribly it had hurt, and then – this. All of this. The suicide of George Gracey, owner of Gracey Mansion, her would be groom, her everything, her love, and her life. She swore she felt her heart swell and pound loudly as though someone was banging against the walls. Not even the lightning and thunder could silence it.

“Emily, my dear! We can finally be together!”

“STAY BACK!” At her command, lightning shrieked and illuminated the expression on her face. If George were to describe her expression it would be a contorted culmination of terror in her eyes, confusion in her eyebrows, anger in her mouth, and disgust at how she held the bouquet before her like a shield against George.

“Emily? What is the-“

“Why would you kill him!?”

“Emily, my dear, I thought he was another suitor attempting to whisk you away from me. Surely, you can understand?” He coaxed. She hated when he coaxed and cooed, but she knew that was his method for calming a situation.

“Understand?” She balked. “Understand madness?! You must be mad yourself for me to believe that!”

“I do understand now that he was the tailor.”

“Yes, George, you understand that now. Now. When we are both deceased and can no longer love each other, especially when one has committed such a crime as murder, and another such as suicide.”

George’s eyes widened then narrowed. So then, his sacrifice was in vain. All the hardship and heartache he endured in his time when he was alive would not be eased in his afterlife. His suicide had been for naught and he knew that not even in death could he escape such terrible pain. He could feel weights dragging his shoulders down, down, down like quicksand, and he clenched his fists. Madam Leota always said that misfortune followed whenever fortune was present. It was a second shadow, waiting to strike when the moment was all well and good. Now it struck him terribly like a snake bite and he felt the venom rummage throughout his new found frame. Were he to have a heart in this new life, it would pound uncontrollably and loud, like Emily’s. Her heart was as wild as a wildebeest, charging in an angry rampage, and how she was able to control herself, other than her heart, was an astounding feat that George swore he would possibly never ever see again. Emily’s eyes were thin, two yellow slits piercing through the darkness of the Stretching Room and while George never feared women, he now understood the phrase ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’. Those eyes watched him, waiting for him to speak or move. They would strike like panthers in the jungle and she would possibly roar like one too, her wailings of remorse and unimaginable fury tearing through George’s soul and possibly the mansion itself. George would welcome them without hesitation, knowing that he deserved them.

When George did not speak, Emily’s thin slits gave way to somber orbs who realized the future at hand. There was no way she could forgive George so acting so angrily and hastily. While she loved him, she knew that this love could not overpower his bout of madness and murder. Her shoulders slumped in defeat as her heart began to slow, her anger fading and fizzing much like her love for George.

“I understand,” George started with bitterness in his tone. “If you cannot forgive me or love me, given the actions I have performed. By no means, did I wish to indirectly guide my hand to your demise.”

This was the best he could do. He knew this. He did not know if Emily knew this, but there was nothing more he could do. George could not reverse time, he could not grant any wishes, and he could not perform another act of atonement. All he had in his possession was words and while they could only soothe some of the heart, they could not remedy the situation entirely. In acknowledging this, the bitter tones left him like butterflies from the cocoon and in its place was a voice of resolve. A voice that rang with hope like church bells and wanted nothing more than to find and utilize a solution to all of this madness.

“I ask for your forgiven-“

“You will not have it.” Emily spat.

Her anger was muffled, but by no means was it completely gone. At her words, she watched as George tried to bite his knuckle – a habit he often had in life when attempting to swallow emotions – only to find that his hand when through his mouth and he cringed at the slight feeling of penetration. He would have to get used to this and he sighed miserably, knowing that he had truly lost everything: his life, his love, his habit, himself. There was nowhere else to go, but to walk these halls in pure defeat and he knew that for all eternity he would never be happy as long as his would be bride was upset with him. Every room would be a reminder of something wonderful and he would suffer for every happy memory it brought back, only to stare upon the chambers in their decaying state. 

“I will take my place in the attic.” Emily started in a stiff voice that bit back anger and the tears that she tried to hide beneath her veil.

There was no place else for her to go. The attic would be the most heartbreaking location to be at the moment, if not many more moments to come, but there was nowhere else to roam in the mansion. To walk down the endless hallway and hear the shrieks of the damned and deceased would break her heart more than what it already was. At least to hear the organ playing would be somewhat better than pained screams and she knew she had seen a gramophone in the attic that played a rather nice violin medley. Perhaps that medley would offer some solace and comfort given the situation at hand. It could not pacify all her hearts aches, but it would do for the many years to come.

“Do not disturb my peace.” She finished and phased through the wall, out of the Stretching Room and out of George’s afterlife.


End file.
